


billows and breeze (all that was me is gone)

by kay_emm_gee



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, F/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 23:23:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11793603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: When Sansa gets captured by pirates, she knows not to expect any allies aboard The Golden Lion. What she doesn't expect, however, is to be intrigued by her assigned guard, by his quiet if gruff demeanor, or how different he seems to be from the other men on board.Even so, she is still a prisoner and is desperate to find a way off the ship and back to her home. The question that remains, however, is once Dickon seems to take a liking to her, will it be enough to allow her to go free?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am all aboard the HMS Dicksa, and because Tom Hopper is forever Billy Bones in my mind, here is a little pirate!AU ficlet for this wonderful crackship.

Sansa had always been terrified of the sun-bleached, rag-covered skeletons of punished pirates that hung over the seagate to White Harbor. The dread she felt at staring up at those long-dead remnants of the crown’s enemies, however, paled in comparison as she stared at the sight now in front of her: a ship deck full of living, breathing pirates. Dirty, salt-crusted, fierce, and armed to the teeth, the crew was staring at her as her captors pusher her aboard.

They were all her captors now, from the youngest powder monkey to the oldest cook on board. Despite her efforts to keep her identity unknown, someone had recognized her Tully hair. Combined with wolf sigil on the uniforms of her escorts–all dead now, burning in the ruined ship or already at the bottom of the sea–one of the pirates had figured out who she was. Presenting her to the captain was merely a formality, or so his quartermaster had chuckled at her just as they arrived at the ship.

She repressed a shiver as she was walked across the deck back to the captain’s quarters. Sansa could feel the men’s eyes on her, every part of her, and it coated her skin like a grimy film. It was almost a relief to hear the wooden cabin door close behind her. Through another set of doors, however, and then she was facing the man who held her fate in his hands. It surprised her, that the captain looked more like a soldier than a pirate. With his golden hair, he could even have been a king. He was not though; the closest he had come to the throne was guarding it, then betraying it. Despite his appearance of civility, the captain was just a vicious traitor to the crown who plagued the queen’s seas.

“Well, Bronn,” he drawled as he lifted his feet off his desk. “Looks like you were wrong about the contents of that hold.”

The man at her shoulder chuckled. “Ay, but just as good as treasure, this one. Don’t you recognize her?”

The captain stood, smiling sharply. “Ned Stark’s eldest daughter, of course. And what were you doing sailing so far south this time of year?”

Sansa didn’t answer, just clenched her fists tighter into her skirts. The captain walked towards her slowly, until he was only a breath away. Reaching a finger under her chin, he tipped her head up so she was staring him straight in the eye. “It doesn’t really matter, now, does it? You’re not going south anymore. You’ll stay right here with us, until we reach an agreeable price for you from your father.”

Her throat closed up, because although she knew her father would relinquish Winterfell itself to get her back, she did not believe it was money that the captain was after. Even so, she forced herself to offer a true, if trembling, warning, “If I’m hurt in any way, you’ll never get another night’s rest. He’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth if I’m not returned in one piece.”

The captain raised an eyebrow and exchange a brief glance with Bronn. The quartermaster shrugged, then nodded. Immediately, the captain snapped his fingers. Sansa startled as a young man stepped up to her side. She hadn’t noticed anyone else was in the room, though as she stared at him out of the corner of her eye, it seemed impossible to have missed him.

He was nearly a hand taller than her, with broad shoulders and thick arms. His face was long, rectangular, and covered in stubble. He looked less like a pirate and more like a sailor, possibly the captain’s influence. Even as she stared at him, he did not look her way once, just kept his attention on the captain.

“I’m putting her under your watch, Dickon,” the captain ordered. “She is to sleep in Bronn’s quarters–”

The quartermaster grunted, but after a stern glare from the captain, he fell into sullen silence.

Continuing, the captain explained, “–for the duration of her stay with us. See that she remains there. She is not permitted about the ship, for any reason. You will bring her meals to her and guard her door at night. Essentially, she is your responsibility while we wait to hear back from her father.”

Dickon nodded, and Sansa finally felt his gaze fall on her. His eyes were as blue as the sea they were sailing on and also as unfathomable. He gave nothing away–not interest, not resentment, not hatred. Even though his stare was blank, it was still intense. Her skin prickled, warm and aware of his large presence, and she ducked her head. It was nerves, she told herself, that made her cheeks flush. This one youth was both her jailer and her guardian while on board, both foe and friend.

When he grabbed her arm, roughly however, she took back that last qualifier. He might be her protector, she thought as he slammed the door and locked her inside a new room, but he most certainly was not her friend. She had no friends here, no allies. She was adrift amongst enemies, with no champions or saviors in sight.

Curling up in the musty, rough hammock, Sansa chocked back tears and began to pray to all the gods to help her find a way out of this mess. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small act of kindness leads to new doors being opened.

What Sansa hated most about her quarters (or rather, prison room) aboard  _The Golden Lion_  was that there was no window. She supposed it could be worse; they might have thrown her in an actual jail cell. Still, it was nearly unbearable not being able to keep track of the daylight. It might have been only a week, but the way her days dragged on and on, it felt like a dozen. Meals did not come regularly enough for her to tally her days in captivity, nor were they varied enough for her to even tell what time of day it was.

Her disgruntled guard gave her no indication, either. Dickon barely looked at her in the short time they interacted–just enough for him to open the door, set down a bowl on her bedside table, and lock her in again. Finally, when she couldn’t bear it any longer, at her next meal she asked in a cracked, quiet voice, “How long has it been?”

He startled, pausing as he reached forward with her daily ration. “What?”

His voice was deep, drawling, and her lips parted as she suddenly forgot what she was asking. He hadn’t said a word in her presence, and it was startling to hear even one word from him. Swallowing, she collected herself and asked, “How long have I been here?”

“Two weeks.”

“Has the captain heard from my father?”

His jaw set, as if he didn’t like the question, but her desperation for information grew. Now that she knew a little bit, she wanted to know it all.

“Please,” she murmured, reaching her hand out to lay it on top of his. “Has there been any word from Winterfell?”

At her touch, he jerked his hand away, spilling her meal in the process. The bowl clattered to the floor, and the bean hash spattered over the worn floorboards. Dickon cursed. They nearly bumped heads both reaching down to retrieve the bowl. Sansa straightened and sat back on the bed, watching him nervously.

He didn’t look at her again, simply leaving with the bowl in hand. Her stomach rumbled as she listened to the lock click into place, and she regretted even opening her mouth in the first place.

Lack of information was a scarcity she could handle; lack of food was not.

* * *

She startled when the door opened a short time later and Dickson entered. He had another bowl in his hand. He set it down on her table, but instead of leaving, he paused. With a furtive glance at the cracked open door, he sighed.

“The captain sent a message to Winterfell yesterday.”

Sansa’s breath hitched.  _Only yesterday?_ It would take another week at least for it to arrive, and gods knows how long for a reply to reach them out here at sea. Her stomach clenched in despair, because now her departure from this ship seemed even more distant than before. Even as her hope faded to nothing, she managed to remember her manners and whispered, “Thank you.”

Dickon gave her a quick nod before leaving her again. Sansa reached for the bowl and began eating. A few bites later, she realized there was more than usual. She looked at the thick wooden door thoughtfully, then returned to eating. She finished the entire portion, bland taste and all, because she was not one to overlook kindness, especially by someone who had no obligation to show any towards her.

* * *

Over the next few days, her portions continued to be more than they had been in the previous weeks. She took to offering a  _thank you_  to Dickon now, which felt a little strange, given that she still resented him, the crew, and the captain for keeping her hostage. Still, if she could convince someone to be on her side even marginally, it would be better than nothing.

Finally, she worked up the courage to address him again. As he set down her yet again supplemented meal, she said softly, “I hope you’re not giving up your rations for me.”

He glanced at her, as if surprised that she was speaking to him. He considered her, then shrugged. “I’m friendly with the cook, that’s all.”

“Well, I thank you for it.”

Dickon just stood there, hesitating, unsure. So Sansa took a chance and smiled up at him. It was a small smile, but it was enough to make his expression soften. He dipped his head in farewell, then retreated.

The lock was slow to slide into place this time, and Sansa bit her lip in victory.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickon comes to the rescue, and Sansa doesn’t know what to think of it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Warning - contains allusion to attempted sexual assault.

It was odd, to feel the ship at rest. There was no rocking, no rolling, and only the gentle slap of waves against the hull. Sansa could hear the sea birds calling faintly in the distance, and she guessed they were making port somewhere. She was surprised they had stopped, knowing that these kind of men avoided going ashore at all costs. It was dangerous to venture into legal ports.

That thought pulled at her nerves; she knew of pirate ports from rumors the northern bannermen whispered about and from stories Old Nan used to tell them beside the fire late at night. Theon used to boast about visiting one when he was younger, but she doubted that very much. Even as fierce seafarers as the Ironborn were, the illicit pirate ports were closely guarded secrets that few outsiders knew of. That was the point, she supposed--even pirates needed a safe place to take shelter when the storm grew too harsh.

Not that she would get to see that shelter. The captain had stopped by earlier to tell her that she would remain on board for the duration of their stay.

_And Dickon, you too, of course,_  he had added. Sansa felt her guard tense even from across the room, and she felt genuine sympathy for him. To be months at sea, and then arrive at port and not be allowed ashore was close to torture, even for someone who had sworn their life to sailing the fourteen seas.

For another day, though, the majority of the crew remained on board. Only the captain, quartermaster, and a few other men had gone ashore to settle their lodgings. Sansa could hear the rest above deck, their rough voices growing more boisterous as the sun set. If she closed her eyes and ignored the damp feel and salty scent of her quarters, she could almost imagine that she was at home, in Winterfell, listening to her father’s men celebrate late into the night after a feast. Land or sea, soldier or pirate, the sounds of brotherhood were the same, she was discovering.

Sansa fell asleep to those sounds, the yells of card games and the off-key rumbling of shanties, but woke up to another. A loud thud startled her awake, and her heart beat wildly as she sat up in bed. Muffled, angry voices sounded outside in the hall. She froze for a moment before cautiously approaching the door, with trembling hands. If she was in danger, it was better that she know of it.

The voices had grown loud enough for her to hear clearly, though she almost wished they hadn’t.  _A prize_ , one had called her, in their slurring voices, and apparently all prizes were  _shared_  equally aboard this ship.

“Fuck off,” Dickon growled. “And that’s captain’s orders.”

“Well, the captain ain’t here.” A mean chuckle was cut off abruptly, and it took Sansa a minute to recognize the sound of a weapon being drawn.

“Fuck. Off.”

The answer was a shuffle, and an aggressive grunt--one of the instigators must have thrown a punch--and a fight broke out. Clangs of metal on metal and knuckles against flesh and wood made Sansa’s gut twist. The the odds were not in Dickon’s favor, as, even inebriated, two attackers could win against a single fighter. She began praying to the Warrior to help Dickon prevail, slowly backing up towards the bed.

When her legs hit the frame, she groped for the corner of the thin, worn pallet. Frantically, she grabbed for the nail thrust in the fabric there, which in her boredom and desperation she had worked out of the floorboards. It was blunt, and short, and would likely do nothing to help her, but she clutched it anyways. The seconds stretched, and the sound of one decisive blow followed another. She raised the nail when silence fell and drew in a shallow breath. The lock rattled, and the door swung open.

Dickon stood in the doorway, chest heaving, dark spots-- _blood_ , she realized--speckled on his face. She dropped the nail, but she couldn’t hear it hit the floor over her thundering heartbeat. Unable to move, Sansa just stared at him, as he stared at her.

Abruptly, he turned, closed the door, then leaned against it. Clearing his throat, he asked softly, “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” The wavering in her voice betrayed her. She swallowed, taking half a step forward. “Are they dead?”

“Both. I made sure of it.”

Relief and a dark satisfaction flooded her. “Thank you,” she murmured, even though she knew it was his job to protect her, that he was only following orders.  _He didn’t do it for me_ , she reminded herself, trying to forget the murderous, satisfied look on his face when he opened the door. 

He shrugged, wincing in the process. When she looked closer, she saw his shirt was torn, in several places, with red peeking through.

“You need to get those looked after,” she offered.

“I’ll manage.” He paused, as if searching for words. “Is there anything you need--” Footsteps and a pounding on the door cut him off. Sansa flinched, and Dickon held up a reassuring hand.

“Who is it?” He demanded.

Sansa didn’t recognize the name, but given that Dickon opened the door, she assumed he was no threat to either of them. The two men spoke hurriedly, and when the other one retreated, Dickon turned back to her and finished his question.

“I just want to be alone,” she murmured. Solitude was safe, and quiet. 

“I will check on you later, if that is alright?” He offered. 

Nodding, she sat down on the bed. It was a long while after he left that she laid back down. Even then, she did not--could not--close her eyes. Only when, hours later, she heard footsteps, his footsteps, outside her door that she pretended to be asleep. The door creaked open, and stayed open for a dozen breaths, before shutting quietly again. Quickly but quietly, Sansa sat up and then crept towards the door. She heard a sigh, and the slide of fabric against wood as Dickon sat down, back against her door.

Sansa did the same inside her room, leaning her head against the rough panels. Hand flat against the floor, she slid it backwards, until she could feel the air from the hall blowing over her fingers. She thought of the songs she loved to have her mother or Old Nan sing, the ones of maidens fair and heroes brave, and how, in the stories, the maiden would have slipped her hand under the large gap, to find the hero’s there waiting to hold it in comfort.

She was no longer a girl, though, but a woman grown, and her life was not a story or a song. There were no true heroes here--loyal ones, maybe, but it was not to her they were sworn. So she lifted her hand wrapped her arms around her middle.

Still, she sat against the door for a while longer, listening to the soft, steady breathing from the other side of the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A change of scenery, a fight, a kiss.

Sansa sighed in relief as her foot set down on solid ground again--well, almost solid ground. The wet sand still shifted beneath her shoes as she climbed out of the small boat. Dickon walked along ahead of her, haloed in the dark by the yellow-orange glow of the settlement up ahead. She didn’t know what to expect of the pirate port, though she assumed she would see very little of it. Although the captain had decided, for her safety, to bring her ashore, she was still going to be kept under close guard. The captain had been quite adamant on that fact.

 _If you think my crew is dangerous,_  he drawled,  _you would faint at the mere whisper of what the other crews who dock here are capable of. Which is why Dickon will be by your side, day and night._

Sansa hadn’t been able keep staring at his smirk after that. She focused on her folded hands instead, and how hard her fingers were pressing into her knuckles. Thank the gods they had left soon after that. She wasn’t sure if the tightness in her chest was because she was about to faint right then and there…or if there was a little more wolf in her than she thought, and she was about the bare her teeth at the disgraced former kingsguard.

 _I know keepin’ a closer eye on her will be quite a hardship, lad,_  Bronn had murmured dryly to Dickon under his breath as they were leaving the captain. Sansa hadn’t heard Dickon’s response--just the sharp tone of his deep voice--but whatever it was, it had made the quartermaster chuckle and raise his hands before walking away.

Since last night, though, Dickon hadn’t said a word to her. Not even when helping her out of the boat just now, and as soon as she was down, he had dropped her hand immediately. Now, she just stared at his broad back as she followed him up the beach. She supposed what he did for her could have put him in a bad spot with the crew, but she couldn’t believe he would take that out on her. He didn’t have to kill those two men, but he had, to protect her. And Sansa had to believe he didn’t regret it.

The ground beneath her feet turned from sand to dirt, the dunes gave way to low, twisting trees barely covered in leaves, and soon they were walking along a short, narrow path that cut through to the town border. Dickon seemed to hesitate before they crossed the boundary. He finally glanced down at her, lips pursed. After blowing out a long breath, he muttered, “Stay close to me.”

She didn’t have a chance to even nod before he set forth. Stumbling after him, she stayed right at his back as he led them through the streets of the town. The cool night air nipped at her, and Sansa pulled her cloak tighter. She kept her eyes on Dickon’s heels, afraid that if she looked away, she would be left behind. They kept to side streets and alleys, but even so, the sound of raucous, drunken shouts grew louder and louder. As they turned to pass by a particularly bright square, temptation won out. She finally snuck a peek at the infamous port and promptly stopped in her tracks.

Pirates, everywhere. Clustering at tables outside taverns, leaning over balconies, drinking and gambling and singing and kissing and-- _more,_ at which she immediately looked away with a blush. It didn’t help much, given that anywhere she looked, some scene of debauchery was waiting for her. So distracted, she nearly screamed when someone grabbed her arm roughly.

It was merely Dickon, though he looked mad enough to spit. “Put your hood back up,” he demanded.

Before Sansa could blink, he had done it for her, and then they were off again. A sliver of irritation arose in her at his shortness, and so she lagged behind a bit. The more she made their pace slow, the more often Dickon glanced back at her in frustration. That only made her tip her chin higher, her jaw jutting out the way it used to when Old Nan had scolded her for this thing or that thing.

Finally, he spun around to face her. “If your plan is to have another crew spot you and steal you away,” Dickon accused in a raised voice, “you’re off to a great start. Though the captain was right when he said you should fear the others much more than you fear us.”

“Mayhaps I will take my chances with them,” she shot back, just because she hated that imperious tone he was taking. She had no doubt she would be dead--or worse--if another crew took her.

“With you flashing that hair around, that might just come to pass,” he said angrily as his gaze fell on the braid that had slipped out of her cloak.

Sansa immediately traced her fingers over it, a flash of apprehension seizing her. “I didn’t mean to--”

“I know, and I don’t think anyone saw back there.” Dickon sighed heavily, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “And I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just…”

“You have a job to do.”

“I have to keep you safe,” he murmured at the same time.

Sansa paused and stared at him, trying to puzzle out why those words had made her pulse jump. He looked right back at her, gaze unflinching, so captivating that she forgot where they were and why. There was just Dickon, who even with his reticence and hard edges had somehow, gods be good, become her anchor in all of this.

The crack of a loud laugh split through the night, and it startled them both out of their daze. Hand resting on the dagger at his waist, Dickon turned back around. He waited until she was at his side before walking ahead, however, and he did so at a manageable pace. Sansa kept her breath while they walked this time, though for some reason, Dickon seemed tenser. He kept his hand on his dagger, his fingers tightening more and more on the hilt the further they moved into the heart of the port. Sansa kept glancing around with shifting eyes, trying to detect the danger he seemed to sense. Nothing and everything jumped out at her, because even with the bright winking of lights from windows and door cracks, the shadows seemed to lengthen around the two of them. She was about to voice her concern when Dickon moved suddenly.

A push, a jerk, a whirl, and then Sansa was between him and an alley wall. He pressed her into the rough wood, her palms in danger of catching splinters as she braced them behind her. She could only see the hollow of his throat in her line of sight, as his broad arms bracketed her upper body as he leaned on his forearms against the wall. Dickon breathed deeply, his exhales warm against her forehead. She, however, could only breathe quickly, shallowly, wondering what exactly he was hiding them from. As she began to hear voices on the street from the direction they had come from, she began to turn her head. Dickon moved his head too, his mouth landing at the corner of hers. Heart stuttering, Sansa’s breath hitched as he used the moment to nudge her so that her gaze pointed straight once more--this time straight at him.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his lips almost brushing hers. “They’ll notice us if you look.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know, but they were following us for a block or so,” he muttered.

Sansa swallowed tightly, wondering if someone had recognized her in that moment she had let her hood--and her guard--drop. “I’m sorry--”

“It may just be a jump crew, looking to steal some coin,” he answered. “Best not to jump to conclusions.”

As she stared at Dickon, trying to hide her fear from her eyes, a clattering of footsteps from the street startled her. Immediately, he pressed even closer, every line of his against every line of hers. His large hands came to frame her face, thumbs resting on her temples. A shout from the street sounded, then Dickon muttered something under his breath, breathed in, and then his mouth was on hers.

Sansa’s hands immediately clutched at his chest--to push him away, or pull him closer, she didn’t know. He stroked her cheeks calmly, soothingly, then pulled a breathe away to whisper, “They saw us. Play along,” he whispered. “It’ll hide you.”

He went to kiss her again, but there was hesitation there, as if he were waiting for her agreement. Sansa did not even think twice before lifting her mouth to his. His lips were rough but cool, a soothing balm compared to the hot flush rising in her cheeks. As her fingers tightened in his tunic, his arm--the one farther from the street--moved down until it wrapped around her lower back. Dickon bent her into him, one leg slipping in between hers. Her mouth opened in astonishment--not because she was affronted, but because the kindling in her gut sparked into a real flame--and he followed suit. She was kissing him in earnest now, his scent of sea and sweat surrounding her, his touch settling her ablaze.

A crass whistle broke the daze. She pulled back immediately, but then Dickon’s hand at the back of her head pushed her face against his chest. A sweet tableau of a lover’s embrace, it would seem to a casual observer, Sansa realized. She buried her face further into his chest, hoping the trick to keep her hidden would work.

“Couldna afford a room?” A nasally male voice called out. “Or dinna wanna?”

“None of your fuckin’ business,” Dickon growled.

Footsteps drew closer, and Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. Dickon’s hand was warm and steady against her back, his thumb twitching back and forth--either in comfort, or anticipation, maybe even both.

“Ya look like ya could,” another, more gravelly voice countered. “Mayhaps we’ll finna out.”

A sharp shift in Dickon’s posture and two jerks of his body was followed by two shouts of indignation.

“Ya missed us,” the second voice growled.

Dickon shifted again. “I won’t the second time. Now leave, or you’ll wish you had.”

A half-dozen curses poured from them, but slowly, the footsteps retreated. Sansa sagged against Dickon when silence had prevailed for more than a hundred breaths. Slowly, he pulled away and looked down at her. His expression was serious, concerned, but unreadable beyond that.

“All right?” He asked quietly as he sheathed the throwing knife he had been holding back into his belt.

She could only nod. His gaze darted away from her face, but his hand stayed on her back. Her fingers relaxed, so her palms were flat against his chest. As she parted her lips to say something (though she didn’t know what), he straightened and stepped back, eyes shuttering.

“We should be on our way,” he said. He walked to the alley entrance, retrieving the two knives he had thrown at their pursuers along the way. After peering out in both directions, he motioned her forward as the street was apparently clear.

They continued their walk to their lodgings without saying another word. She was so exhausted, in more ways than one, that she did not even bother to take note of the path they took to the small tavern at the northern edge of the port. It would have been smart for her to do so, in case she wanted to escape later, but she couldn’t muster up the strength. After speaking with the owner (who seemed to know him, and who ignored her), Dickon led her to her room, his only goodbye a silent nod before closing the door. Sansa laid down on the bed, not bothering to get under the tattered blanket. Thin and moth-eaten as it was, it would do her no good, just as thinking of what happened this night with Dickon would do her no good either.

Even so, as she closed her eyes, she remembered what he felt like, kissing her, up against her. It was to that memory that Sansa fell asleep. And, for the first time in a while, she slept soundly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa had shared a room before, but not until now had she shared it with a man.

Sansa should have known her single night of peaceful sleep would not be repeated. Well after nightfall her second day ashore, a knock sounded on her door. She had not been asleep or even close to it--not with the drunken ruckus from the tavern downstairs--but it startled her nonetheless. Her heart calmed when she heard Dickon’s voice, however.

“Come in,” she called. The door cracked open silently, and he slipped inside, lantern in his large hand. At seeing his flat expression, she asked what was wrong.

“Captain has ordered that we’re to be sharing this room, from now on.” Her eyes widened, but before she could ask, he explained, “It will raise suspicion if I’m guarding from the outside.”

“But last night--”

“I was outside, and it attracted attention,” he interrupted, mouth pursing. “So captain made his orders.”

He lowered the lantern, not quite meeting her eye as he spoke. Sansa’s heart had skipped a beat as she stared at him standing there. He had not moved away from the closed door, as if he was expecting her to object. Some part of her was unsettled by the idea of his staying in her room, but it had been more from the strangeness of the proposition than any uncomfortableness with it. She had not expected to share a room with a man until she was married, and now she was to share one, for purposes of safety, with a pirate, one whom she had kissed.

She suddenly felt the absurd need to laugh, but swallowed and pushed it down. He was asking her permission, if in a roundabout way, and she appreciated that, as the captain probably did not care in the least what she thought. Taking in a steadying breath--because she trusted Dickon, and she certainly did not want anyone in this place paying attention to this odd situation--she said, “Well, I suppose we can’t argue with that.” 

At that Dickon had looked up to meet her eye. He still did not move an inch, and did not until she lay back down. Finally satisfied with her compliance, he immediately sat down to the left of the door, back against the wall the bed was up against and looking away from her.

“Go to sleep,” he rumbled, and she started, not realizing she had been staring.

Sansa lay back down, pulling the blanket around her. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the yellow glow of the lantern--and the sound of Dickon breathing--would not let her. Eventually, he snuffed out the candle, but it was still a long while before Sansa drifted off.

* * *

When she woke, Dickon had already left the room. Blinking sleep from her eyes, she stared at the spot on the floor where he had sat, and mayhaps slept. It was as far from her bed as possible in the tiny room, but still she blushed. Her control finally slipped, and a laugh bubbled up and out into the cool morning. She clapped her hand over her mouth and wondered what in the seven hells was happening to her.

With a sigh, she flopped back onto the sad excuse for a bed. Her situation was not amusing, not in the least, but for now, she let herself have a laugh at the absurdity of it all.

* * *

The second night Dickon came in just as late--this time smelling of liquor--but she had her back to him, pretending to be asleep. He simply settled quietly into his corner, and once again she let the sound of his deep inhales and exhales lull her to sleep.

This time when she woke, however, she opened her eyes to find him still there, asleep. Sitting up, she glanced at shuttered window to her right. The sun had barely come up; she was not normally awake this early, possibly why she had caught him like this. In the dim grey light coming in through the shutter cracks, she chanced another glance at him. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his head awkwardly rested in the corner. He would have quite a sore neck when he woke, she would bet.

Suddenly, Sansa shivered from the chill bite in the morning air. Another look at Dickon, and she realized his shoulders were hunched. Despite his size, he was no doubt cold as well. As she worried her bottom lip between her teeth, her fingers traced over the edge of her blanket once, twice, before she rose up. Silently, she slipped out of bed, bringing the blanket with her. Her heart was in her throat as she moved to place it around Dickon. She was sure if the brush of fabric didn’t wake him, the sound of her pounding heartbeat would. He only shifted a little as she let go of it, but remained asleep.

She did not breathe again until she was back in bed. As she pulled the remaining thin sheet over her and stared at the ceiling, she wondered if the captain knew that the man guarding her slept so soundly. Such a trait could be useful for her, but it would spell disaster for Dickon. The captain would not take losing such a prize as her well, and her guardian would no doubt be punished severely--maybe even fatally--for it. Her stomach knotted at the thought. If it came to it, if she was in true danger, she could work up the courage to flee, despite what might happen to Dickon because of it, but the thought was not a happy one.

All thoughts of escape left her as she remembered that she had no idea where she truly was. She guessed they were still near Westeros, and most likely northern Westeros--it was far too chill for their location to be in the south or in Essos--but even that was no comfort. Even if she slipped past Dickon, she would not make it more than a mile outside of town on her own. Arya might have been able to survive on the run in a strange place, but Sansa was not her sister.

Then again, Sansa thought with a wry smile, if her sister had been the one captured, Arya might have just up and convinced the captain to take her onto his crew. Being a pirate was something she had dreamed of when they were little. And while back then she had made fun of her for it, now she believed that Arya might have just managed to do it, in these circumstances. Either that, or she would have annoyed the captain until he had thrown her overboard. Her smile faded at that. For all that the captain had finally agreed to return her home--after wrangling an apparently pleasing outrageous sum from her father, of course--she did not for one breath believe she was any safer than she had been in their care beforehand.

Turning on her side, she glanced at Dickon once more. The tightness in her chest eased as she realized his expression was calmer than before. She had not realized how tense the lines around his mouth had been, how stiffly he had slept. Now, though, he appeared to be resting in truth. A pang went through her as she thought that this was how he might look if he were not a pirate, if he were simply a young man from back at Winterfell.

Sansa turned over and closed her eyes, trying desperately to fall asleep again. She could not, however, as she kept replaying the release of Dickon’s shoulders as she had placed the blanket around him in her mind.  _I was just being a lady_ , she told herself,  _and ladies are always the model of politeness, even to brigands, even to pirates._

She was still to repeating that line to herself, trying to convince herself of its trueness, when she heard Dickon stir. Her eyes squeezed shut. Holding her breath, she listened to every move he made. She only remembered to exhale when his footsteps approached. He lingered over her bed for a moment, and then she felt the blanket drift down on her. It still carried his body heat, and it was difficult not to bury into it immediately.

Only when the door clicked shut did pull it over her head and wrapped it around her tightly. She should not get so much comfort out of his warmth, his scent, but it was better than longing for another kiss from him. So Sansa let herself have this one guilty pleasure, if only to keep other ones--shockingly improper ones--at bay.

* * *

Before she went to sleep the next night, she left the blanket in the corner for him. Still awake when he entered--she  _had_  tried to fall asleep, truly--Sansa held her breath as she heard him pick it up. Dickon huffed, or sighed, quietly, then moved towards her. Like before, he cast the blanket back over her, but this time it did not carry anything of him with it.

As she exhaled in disappointment at that, he suddenly leaned closer, and her breath hitched in curious anticipation. Surprise filled her when he simply adjusted the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Sansa resisted the urge to shiver--not from cold, but from his tempting proximity. He smelled faintly of salt and ale, and, somehow, of dirt. Not the squalid mud of the coastal swamps, or the sharp earth from up north at home, but the rich, sun-warmed soil of wide open fields during harvest.

She almost turned on her back to face him, to find out why a man of the sea carried the scent of land on him.  What stopped her was the slightest brush of his thumb on her upturned cheek. It was barely there, light and achingly short, but warmth bloomed across her skin at the touch nonetheless. Her breath didn’t even have time to hitch before he had lifted it--only to catch a piece of stray hair and move it away. That had been his intention, she guessed, the only clear thought in her mind as she sensed him let the reigned-in strand slide between his fingertips.

And then--with a curse under his breath--Dickon retreated. She listened as he sat down, his head thudding against the wall and her heart thudding against her ribcage. Her pounding pulse wasn’t loud enough to drown out his long sigh, however, and she fell asleep wondering if it was frustration, regret, or something in between that she heard in that sound.

* * *

The next few evenings passed much in the same manner. So, she began to feel unsettled when one night, Dickon did not return. No matter how hard she tried to coax herself into sleep, she could not. Eventually, after counting the nicks in the wall to her right over and over, she rolled over. Staring at the door did not summon him, however. Neither did sitting up in bed and twisting the edge of her blankets in her hands.

Sansa tried to calm her rattled nerves. Captain Lannister was notorious for his ruthlessness, as were his infamous band of men; there was a reason they occupied most of the gossip regarding the pirate scourges of Westeros. As such, only someone with a death wish would attack a member of  _The Golden Lion’s_  crew, especially one so highly valued as Dickon. Besides, as she had seen, he could more than handle himself in a fight. Whatever, or whomever, had waylaid him--

Her stomach suddenly dropped in terrible realization. Mayhaps someone had waylaid him, not for a fight, but for a rather different type of physical engagement. He was a pirate in port after a long voyage and burdensome assignment as a guardsman, after all. She had seen plenty of men enjoying themselves in that way during her journey to the tavern. Sansa swallowed tightly at the memories, now seeing Dickon in them, gladly receiving the attentions of those women and readily giving equal pleasure in return.

Closing her eyes, she sank back down into bed. The imaginings would not leave her however, despite her heart protesting. Eventually, when the knotted feeling grew to be too much, she let out a noise of frustration, and with that exhalation came a decision. She kept picturing Dickon, half-undressed and hazy-eyed with want, but instead of those women from the street, it was her whom he was looking at. Her chest eased as she let the fantasy take over, let herself be wanton and wicked for once. Sansa would let him have her, if only in her dreams.

Her cheeks grew hot, and she started to sweat underneath the sheets. As she pressed her legs together, which eased and worsened the ache she felt between them at the same time, she teetered on the edge of losing herself in the illusion completely.

Sansa was about to slide her hand over her stomach and down, far down, when the shutters to her window flew open. She jumped, scream caught in her constricted throat, and scrambled off the bed. As she whirled to find a weapon--anything to defend herself--her heard her name called out urgently.

“Sansa, it’s me.”

She could barely see out the window into the pitch-black night, but she knew Dickon’s voice. Suddenly, he was dropping into the room, as if from above. He landed hard, but was upright in a heartbeat, and moving towards her swiftly.

“We’ve got to fucking leave,  _now_ ,” he hissed. “They’re coming for you.”

 _Who_ , her mind asked, but her lips wouldn’t move. Her limbs wouldn’t move either, not even when Dickon shook her hard by the shoulders.

“Sansa,” he shouted, jerking her chin up. She met his eyes and saw both fury and fear in them. It was not a rescue for her, then, that they ran from, but something far worse. “ _NOW.”_

 

“Who.” She had to know, she had to, in order to shake off her terror and indecision.

Dickon answered swiftly, with no trace of irritation. “The crew of  _The Bloodhound._  You won’t know of them from stories, only because their atrocities are too bloody savage for even the rest of us to speak of. Their captain is--they say he survived, nay, conquered all seven hells and returned here to bring back their horrors with him. A load of horseshit, but--” his voice grew hoarse. “There’s reasons for those tall tales.”

 

His gravity made the decision for her. She gulped down a breath, readying herself. Dickon nodded once, curtly, and then handed her dress to her. She hadn’t even begun to put it on before he was climbing out the window. As she tied off the last fastening, she climbed on the bed and leaned over the sill. Her stomach dropped at the sight of him below. The room was only on the second level, but she felt as if she was looking down off one of Winterfell’s towers.

“Hurry,” Dickon called out in a strained voice. He glanced over his shoulder apprehensively.

Sansa could not make herself climb out that window, however. She tried, but her insides heaved at the thought of the drop.

Finally, Dickon looked back up at her--steady, determined--and said, “I’ll catch you, I promise.”

It was only by keeping her gaze locked with his that she managed to hoist herself across the sill. Her arms shook as she balanced there. Dickon nodded at her, and she let go without a second thought. She fell on him, and he stumbled at the impact, but he did not drop her. Just like he had promised.

As soon as her feet touched the ground, they were running. His hand at her wrist was her only sense of direction, tugging this way, yanking that way. She focused on that, used it as her compass needle, despite the shouts and clang of steel echoing from behind them. Running and running, they were in the middle of the forest before she knew it. Dickon was forced to slow as she began to stumble on the underbrush, and Sansa breathed an apology at him.

“Almost there,” he responded.

She didn’t have time to wonder where he was taking them. It wasn’t until she saw the base of the foothills--the ones she had glimpsed from the ship, the ones  _far_  behind the town--that she even had an inkling of their destination. And even then, she was wrong, because Dickon did not head into the mountains as she had expected. Instead, he moved parallel to them, until he stopped, only a bit breathless, in front of a particularly large rock formation.

He pulled her around the side, finally pausing. Just behind him, in the moonlight, she saw a sliver of true pitch black, only noticeable because it was so much darker than the night around them.  _A passageway_ , it dawned on her. She had heard of them, from the stories: a dangerous maze of underground tunnels that connected the pirate islands with one another. Trepidation filled her as she realized that was where they were headed.

When she looked once again at Dickon, he was grimacing. “We still have a long way to go.”

She swallowed. “They are still coming after me?”

“Yes.” He hadn’t even paused to look or listen for pursuers. “He will not stop, once he has a quarry.”

“Then we need to keep moving,” she replied, tipping her chin up even as her voice quavered.

It was dark, far too dark to see Dickon’s face, but in that moment, she could have sworn she saw the slightest smile grace his face. Before she could do so in return, his hand wrapped around her wrist again. He squeezed it once in warning, and then he moved forward, into the passage.

Sansa took one last look at the starlight night sky before she followed him down into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> oh, there is definitely more to come, and soon ;)


End file.
